The Lampasas Leader (Lampasas, Tex.), Vol. [47], No. 44, Ed. 1 Friday, August 16, 1935 Page: 3 of 6
six pages : ill. ; page 21 x 15 in. Scanned from physical pages.View a full description of this newspaper.
Extracted Text
The following text was automatically extracted from the image on this page using optical character recognition software:
The Man
From Yonder
(By Harold Titus)
^^j^Copywright—WNU Service
CHAPTER III—^Continued
—6—
“Ave course, Donny,” he acquiesced.
“Ave course. Oi’ll come back when
ye're finished.”
He went downstairs, rubbers thump-
ing on the treads, but he stood at the
bottom a long interval, shaking his
.ej head in misgiving and muttering to
i himself. Then he turned about and
crept back as softly as a cat. On the
upper landing he seated himself lean-
ing against the thip partition of
matched boards which separated him
from the sick man.
A half hour, perhaps, Bird-Eye sat
there growing cramped and chilly in
the draughty hallway. Then he leap-
ed to is feet with a little cry. From
within had come a long, retching gasp,
a sharp creak of bed springs, a thud
on the floor. Blaine burst into the
room. The catalogue was beside the
bed. Old Don lay half doubled for-
ward, face in blankets, one limp hand
swaying slightly as it dangled oveT
the edge.
“Donny! Donny, b’y, what’s up?”
He raised the limp figure, laid it
back, stared hard at the face which
now seemed so peaceful and then ran
excitedly down the stairway in fren-
zied search of Joe Piette.
In the room was confusion after
Doctor Sweet answered the hasty
summons. The doctor felt vainly for
a pulse, touched the shrunken breast
of the old cruiser and then turned
away with a significant shake of his
head.
The usual things wex-e said and
then Bird-Eye and the physician were
alone in the room. The little Irish-
man’s eyes brimmed with tears but
behind these was an intent look as
of one who impatiently awaits op-
portunity to pursue a specific purpose,
and when the others trooped down
the stairway he closed the door and
returned hastily to the bedside.
“Sure ’nd where is ut?” he asked
beneath his breath, riffling the leaves
of the bulky catalogue, shaking folds
out of the rumpled blankets.
“What are you after, Bird-Eye?”
the doctor asked.
“Ah! Here ut be!”
On his hands and knees, peering be-
neath the bed, he uttered that ejacu-
in that letter P’
“Oi’ll be takin’ it myself to Ben
Elliott this night. Aw, ’nd won’t
Misther Brandon squirm whin th’ b’y
stai’ts in crackin’ th’ tough nut! ’Nd
it’s th’ justice av the saints, no less,
that Brandon brings Elliott to Abie’s/
attintion in a foight over owld Don-
ny.”
They went down the stairway to-
gether after closing the door softly
behind them, Bird-Eye muttering im-
precations on the head of Nicholas
Brandon.
And even as Doctor Sweet emerg-
ed from the dark mouth of the narrow
stairway, the front door opened and
Brandon himself entered the hotel,
stamping new snow from his feet.
Others were there, Piette, the drum-
mer, the mill hands; two or three
more. But Brandon’s attention cen-
tered only on the physician.
“Well, Doctor?” he began and it
seemed as though his lungs were too
filled with air to speak comfortably.
“How’s our patient this evening?”
Emory Sweet looked grimly into
the other’s face.
“Old Don has taken the long trail,”
he asid.
“Dead? . . . Dead!” Brandon’s voice
on the query pinched up a bit. And
on the repetition of the word it fell
hollowly, with a finality which might
have indicated sorrow, dismay or
amazement.
But none of these three was re-
flected in his face. In his dark eyes
was just one expression: Relief. Re-
lief! Relief from suspense, from wor-
ry; relief from dark and haunting
fear!
“You don’t say! So the old fellow’s
gone!” His voice was even now, col-
orless, assured, as was normal. “Well,
it was to be expected, I suppose. Were
you with him, Doctor?”
“No; he died alone.
Brandon drew a breath as one will
who has asked an important ques-
tion and received a pleasing or re-
assuring answer.
“Talking couldn’t have helped a
man in his condition. He ... He
didn’t visit with anyone, did he?”
A queer, hesitancy crept into his
manner on this as though he shrank
from knowing the reply and Doctor
Sweet turned to Bird-Eye Blaine in
quiringly. But Bird-Eye did not look
at the doctor. He was staring at
Brandon and as that individual’s
gaze, following the doctor’s encoun-
tered his, the Irishman's lips twitch-
ed into a bitter smile.
“So ye’re after wonderin’ whut pore
owld Donny said on his deathbed, are
ye?” he demanded and with this chal-
SYNOPSIS
Ben Elliott—from “Yonder”—arrives at the lumbering town of Tincup,
with Don Stuart, old, very sick man, whom he has befriended. He defeats
Bull Duval, “king of the river,” and town bully, in a log-birling contest.
Nicholas Brandon, the town’s leading citizen, resents Stuart’s presence, try-
ing to force him to leave town and Elliott, resenting the act, knocks him
down. Elliott is an'ested. He finds a friend in Judge Able Armitage. The
judge hires him to run the one lumber camp, the Hoot Owl, that Brandon
has not been able to grab. This belongs to Dawn McManus, daughter of
Brandon’s old pai'tner, who has disappeared with a murder charge hanging
over his head. Brandon sends his bully, Duval, to beat up Ben, and Ben
worsts him in a fist fight and throws him out of camp.
ft
%
‘P
9
%
lation and, reaching far under, rose
to his knees with a sealed envelope
in his hands.
Across the face was a scrawl, writ-
ten with an indelible pencil. Blaine
scowled as he tried to make out the
words, got to his feet, and moved
closer to the light. Doctor Sweet
bent over it beside him.
“Ben Elliott,” the latter read aloud.
“Open this when the nut gets too
hard to crack.”
The doctor scratched his mustache.
He turned his face to meet Bird-Eye’s
startled gaze.
“It’s somethin’, Doctor, thut he
didn’t dare die with on his soul!
Somethin’ he was fearful to tell if he
lived, as well. . . Somethin’ . . .” IJis
hand holding the letter trembled
sharply. “Doctor, sure ’nd it’s some-
thin’ about th’ owld devil himself!”
“Brandon?”
“None other!”
Emory Sweet straightened and gave
a long-drawn Hum-m-m.
“Brandon for sure!” Bird-Eye whis-
pered hoarsely. “’Twas Brandon kept
Donny out av Tincup fer years, wa’nt
it? ’Twas Brandon tuk him when he
was hittin’ th’ booze years back ’nd
made a slave av him, he did! It’s
Brandon who’s1, be’n cornin’ here ivery
night, not loike you or I’d come, but
loike a masther ’d come to watch a
slave ... a slave he was a-scared to
have around. . . .
"Why was a rich man loike Nick
Brandon afraid av ’n owld bum like
Donny;” he demanded, shaking the
letter almost accusingly close in the
other’s face. “Who was ’t with Fax-
son when he died? Who was ’t put
Faxson’s murder on McManus?” He
gesticulated gravely toward the bed.
“Him. . . . Him, Nick Brandon’s slave,
who wance was a man, who wint to
hell with booze, who’s truckled to
Brandon evir since until his pore owld
heart broke!”
“By George, Bird-Eye, it does look
as though it might—” The doctor did
not finish what he had started to say.
Instead he remarked intently: “I’d
give a good deal to know just what’s
lenge stepped down from the stair-
way and crossed the floor slowly to-
ward Brandon. “So ye’re worrying’,
now, over whut he moight ’ve said,
eh?” He laughed, a dry and mirth-
less laugh, and came to a halt a pace
from the man who was so powerful
in Tincup.
“Worrying?” Brandon countered
steadily. “You’re either drunk or
crazy, Blaine!”
“Mebby!”—with a sh^rp nod. “Meb-
be both. But owld Donny wa’nt. . . .
He didn’t do talkin’, Misther Bran-
don. Rid yer moind av that worry.
Sure, ’nd he didn’t talk to a soul av
what was on his moind whin he know-
ed he iay dyin’ ... No talk! No talk
fer somebody to repate ’nd git twist-
ed up ’nd lave out things thut shuld
’ve be’n told. . . . He wrote it! That’s
whut he done, Brandon!”—voice
mounting. “He wrote ut! ’Nd he
wrote ut fer one who’ll make ut so
hot that ye’ll wish ye was sizzlin’
in hell!”
With a sweeping gesture he thrust
the envelope close to Brandon’s face,
so close that the man jerked his head
backward sharply.
“He wrote ut!” Bird-Eye cried tri-
umphantly. “’Nd may th’ saints
speed th’ day whin Misther Elliott
puts to use th’ thing owld Donny had
to tell!”
Grimly he poised an instant before
the larger man. Then he thrust the
letter into his shirt pocket, buttoned
his jacket tightly across it, slapped
his chest decisively, almost boastful-
ly, and without another word strode
to the door and let himself out into
the street.
It was late when Bird-Eye stepped
into the darkness of the tiny office
where Ben Elliott slept at Hoot Owl,
struck a match, lifted it high above
his head and spoke:
“Hi! Misther Elliott!” Ben roused
himself and squinted at the flicker-
ing match. “Git up! Rouse up! I got
big news fer ye!”
They lighted a lantern and by its
glow Ben read the inscription on the
letter which Don Stuart had left him
as Bird-Eye hastily and excitedly ex-
plained‘
“Poor! Him?”
“There’s somethin’ in ut Donny’d
carried secrut fer long!” he whisper-
ed hoarsely. “Ut’s to do with Bran-
don, with fightin’ fire with fire, or
I’m th’ worst guesser in th’ woods!”
“Poor old beggar!” Ben said gently.
“Stuart, I meant. Tough to die
that way. And I never got in to see
him again!”
Bird-Eye nodded. “Yes. But meb-
by he’s done ye as great a favor as
anny man evir done! That’s some-
thin’ in ut about Sam Faxon ’nd Mc-
Manus, I’d bet me last shirt!”
Ben shrugged and turned the en-
velope over. Then he rose, yawned
and slipped it into the drawer of the
plain table that did service for an
office desk.
“Ain’t ye goin’ to read ut, even?”
Bird-Eye demanded in extreme amaze-
ment.
“Why no. You saw the directions:
to open it when the nut gets too hard
to crack.”
Blaine opened his mouth! Words
would not come. “Well, I’m domned!”
he breathed finally. “Here mebby
ye’ve got th club thut’ll droive him
out uv th’ country ’nd ye ain’t even
curious about ut!”
Elliott smiled. “Maybe it’s only a
sick man’s dream, Bird-Eye. And
again maybe it’s an ... an ace in
the hole. I’ve never yet looked at
my hole card until I’m beaten on the
board. I’m not beaten yet, by a long
walk.”
Bird-Eye scratched his head.
“No, not yet. ’Nd may th’ saints
kape ye evir as far from a lickin’ as
ye a^e now, Ben Elliott! But ... I’d
loike to bet my noble tourin’ car thut
owld Donny wrote somethin’ to do
with th’ killin’ av Sam Faxon, I
would!”
“Well, you can’t get any takers
here, Bird-Eye. Not tonight. Into the
hay, now, and let me sleep.”
And about the time Ben Elliott
burrowed into his pillow and shed re-
sponsibility and perplexing pi’oblems,
Nicholas Brandon turned in the pac-
ing of his cold and otherwise desert-
ed office and cocked his head alertly.
It was not unusual for him to be late
in his office. But those drawn shades
and this quick, restless, harried march
to and fro, around and about, and that
perspiration which beaded his fore-
head, and the sudden stoppings and
listenings at the slightest sound . . .
Those were not usual for a man so
thoroughly established in his com-
munity that he dictated every phase
of its life and activity.
He stopped after a time and
ing a drawer of his big desk
from it a bottle of whisky, shook him-
self and muttered softly. For a time
he held it in his hands, debating.
Then, with finality, muttered: “No.
... A clear head now!” He shut the
liquor in its place and resumed
pacing.
Nicholas Brandon may have ruled
Tincup and the surrounding country
with an iron absolutism. He may have
had a deserved reputation for being
a strong man, a resourceful man. But
tonight, alone in his office, remem-
bering the words and looks and
tures of Bird-Eye Blaine, a lowly em-
ployee of an insolvent venture, see-
ing again the flash of that letter
waved before his eyes, he was no
commanding figure. He was a frigh-
tened man, a haunted man, battling
to retain a hold on himself.
CHAPTER IV
Ben Elliott had been on
at Hoot Owl just two weeks.
Armitage was with him for the
night. Ben was tireless, it seemed.
Since the beginning he had labored
daytimes, schemed until late at night,
and now he spent another hour
Able, trying, as he said, to
every dime look like a dollar.
“Now, say!” His face took on a
curious smile as they finally folded
their papers. “I haven’t had much
time to think about anything but
patching up this outfit and getting it
to function, but through it all one
thing’s kept bobbing up so often it’s
got my curiosity on its hind legs.
“Who was McManus? What about
Sam Faxon? Where does the little
girl you’re guardian for come in?”
“Little girl!” Able said, startled
and then smiled. “Why, Dawn is—”
“I keep hearing about these men
McManus and Faxson and how Bran-
don is trying to beat you down so
he can cheat the orphan child. How
about it all?”
Abie’s smile died out. He shoved
up his spectacles and rubbed his
sleepy eyes.
“We haven’t had much time for
history, have we? I’d intended to give
you the story of this property but
we’ve been so concerned with bank
balances and paper due and break-
downs and such things that I just
haven’t had time.
“I’ll have to make a long story
short; just hit the high spots. First,
Nicholas Brandon and Denny McMan-
us came into this country when they
weren’t much more than boys. They
were the first hardwood operators in
this country. The pine had been skin-
ned out, but not many hardwood
camps had at that time gotten this
far from the centers of things. They’d
had some experience and a little mon-
ey but they hit at the right time,
picked up a raft of timber for a song
and stai;ted turning it into a fortune.
“McManus was married and had the
daughter, Dawn. Brandon never mar-
ried. Just when they were swinging
nicely, everything running smooth as
butter, McManus’ wife died. He was
as deeply in love as any man I’ve
ever seen and it sent him completely
to pot. He took to heavy drinking
and got himself in a bad way.
“Of the two, Denny was the more
popular. He was friendly, charitable,
had a heai’t as big as a camp stove
and as soft as a sponge. He’d go the
route for anybody. Why—probably
you've never even heard this—when
old Don Stuart rimmed the company
it was McManus who stood in the
way of pi’osecution. Don had cruised
and bought a lot of stuff for them.
He always had been a drinker him-
self and on one spree got into some
soi’t of mess and crooked the com-
pany out of three or four hundred
dollars. Enough, anyhow, to let him-
self in for a long term in the peni-
tentiary if they’d pushed it. Bran-
don wanted to prosecute, all right,
but McManus stood up for Don. That
was typical of the man; friendly, for-
giving, a real human being, if you
understand.
“But Mac went to pieces himself.
He would be off on a bender for
weeks at a time and scarcely get
over the shakes before he’d start on
another. Finally he got so bad that
Brandon sent him out to a hunting
camp on the river with a fine old
trapper named Sam Faxon. Great old
character, Sam Brandon figured—and
it seemed reasonable—that Sam could
keep Mac away from booze, you see.
He was there a week or so, tapering
off gradually, seeing nobody but Sam.
Bi’andon was working away like a
nailer, buying up a lot of stuff for
himself, probably figui-ing that if Mc-
Manus didn’t sti’aighten up he’d oper-
ate on hi^ own hook. McManus had
this Hoot Owl stuff cinched in his
own name before he went bad.
“Well, one night we were in the
middle of a three-day blizzard and
Sam Faxon stumbled into Don Stu-
art’s shanty on the edge of town,
shot through the arm and frozen so
badly that he died the next after-
noon. Don’s story” — voice slowing
and a finger raising for emphasis—
“was that Faxson told him McManus
had go ten out of booze and turned
ugly and that when he—Sam—tried
to prev ant him from starting for
town after more whisky he went wild
at Sam and shot him. He was hit in
the arm, had to have help and in
trying to get it suffered more ex-
posure than any man could stand.
“Well, that caused a great stir! A
party hit straight out for the camp
and couldn’t find hide nor hair nor
sign of Mac. A couple of old trailers
agreed that somebody had gone down
to the river below the camp the night
Faxson was shot. The Mad Woman
is swift at that bend and never
freezes. The trail seemed to go right
to the edge of the stream and the
accepted theory was that McManus,
realizing what he,’d done, had drown-
ed himself. The fact that nothing
has ever been seen or heard of him
since lends strength to that supposi-
tion.
(To be Continued)
Mr. and Mrs. Gerald Coker and
Mrs. Wayne Casbeer drove to Dal-
las, Saturday morning, where they
met their aunt, Mrs. B. H. Bennett
of Wilmar, Ark. Mrs. Bennett i*e-
turned to Lampasas with them for
a visit in the home of her sister, Mrs.
J. F. Coker.
Mrs. Earl Fields, Mr. and Mrs.
Otto Rathman and daughtei', Mrs.
Homer Fariss, and grandson, l3ob
Heatly, spent Sunday in San Antonio.
WEDS EIGHTY WOMEN
INSIDE FIVE YEARS
Belgrade, Aug. 11.—Konstantin
Manea, 28, was ai-rested by Bucha-
rest police Sunday for marrying eigh-
ty women in five years.
Manea, the newspaper Politika re-
ported, wasted a $200,000 fortune on
women. To get even he married
eighty women, took their riches and
left them.
BLONDES WARNED GENTLE-
MEN NOW PREFER BRUNETTES
Chicago, Dec. 12.—Gentlemen don’t
prefer blondes any more.
Girls with dark tresses are their
choice nowadays—for the first time
in 20 years or more—Mi’s. Ruth Mau-
rer, beauty expert, said Sunday night
on the eve of the annual convention
of the American Cosmeticians’ asso-
ciation.
The flaxen hair on many a pretty
head, she said, is being encouraged
to lose its pei'oxide bleach and re-
sume its normal brunette shade.
Masculine fickleness is less to
blame than feminine styles for the
shift, Mrs. Maurer explained.
Dame Fashion has decreed Per-
sian and Indian colors for the fall,
she said, and blonde hair just doesn’t
go with reds and blues and purples.
The true blonde is one in a hun-
dred, Mrs. Maurer said, and the black-
haired woman is rarer than that.
Platinum blondes—real ones—are sel-
dom seen.
There hasn’t been such a sudden,
decided shift in trend, Mrs. Maurer
said. Women have changed the color
of their hair since Schesch, mother-
in-law of the first king of Egypt,
used henna for the first time, she re-
called.
R. B. Dennis and two children,
Cui’tis and Miss Mattie Belle, of
Burnet visited here Sunday in the
home of Mrs. W. S. Hoover.
der Ads Will Do
It Twice As. Well!
HARD-BOILED business men have found, time
and again, that Lampasas Leader Ads pull more
business for less money than any other kind of
advertising. These men have no illusions when
it comes to buying advertising. Their findings
are based on results—and nothing else!
Doesn’t it stand to reason that you can get
results quicker and cheaper with a Lampasas
Leader Ad—especially when you consider that the
very people you want to reach will be looking for
it? Then in our job department we have the
equipment and the men that kpow how to do the
work. Try them, they are sure to please you in
any kind of job printing you might want.
Lampasas Leader
Upcoming Pages
Here’s what’s next.
Search Inside
This issue can be searched. Note: Results may vary based on the legibility of text within the document.
Tools / Downloads
Get a copy of this page or view the extracted text.
Citing and Sharing
Basic information for referencing this web page. We also provide extended guidance on usage rights, references, copying or embedding.
Reference the current page of this Newspaper.
The Lampasas Leader (Lampasas, Tex.), Vol. [47], No. 44, Ed. 1 Friday, August 16, 1935, newspaper, August 16, 1935; Lampasas, Texas. (https://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth891424/m1/3/: accessed July 18, 2024), University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, https://texashistory.unt.edu.; crediting Lampasas Public Library.